Bell's Diner has been occupying an odd corner of Bristol for 26 years, or so I was told. The present incumbent, Christopher Wicks, has been toiling in the kitchen for a mere six years. Given the peripatetic lifestyle of many of today's chefs, this makes him something of a veteran, even if he is a Johnny-come-lately by the standards of Bell's Diner.

Actually, that "Diner" gives a slightly misleading impression. There is none of the chrome, mirrors, bar stools and staff wearing stripy shirts and funny paper hats that I associate with an American diner. Bell's is a small neighbourhood restaurant, with a fire in an open grate, the trimmings of a superior bistro, and utterly delightful and efficient service. The wine list, with a highly individual and tempting selection - including a number of ace-grade sherries and the very suave Italian red, Bradissimo, that we drank - was another sign that Bell's Diner was a place with an idiosyncratic style. At a time when restaurants, their menus and their wine lists lead the world in cloning techniques, I find such singularity particularly appealing.

It was one of the nights before Christmas, and the place was bustling with refugees from last-minute festive shopping, family duties and the cold and misery of a mid-December night. The proximity of Yuletide probably explained the presence on the menu of chargrilled turkey breast marinated in spiced black treacle with sweet potato and parsnip and cranberry ketchup, and Christmas pudding soufflÀ with brandy ice cream. Indeed, so intriguing did I find these variations on the usual festive fare that I immediately ordered them for myself, preceded by game terrine with piccalilli. My companions of the night, the Chief Executive and her friend Pammie, ordered up a red onion tart with fresh goat's cheese, frisÀe and walnut dressing and a bresaola with pear, walnut and caper salad, followed by grilled hake with cockles, spinach and gremolata, and another helping of the turkey.

I think you know my views on goat's cheese and its role in the modern kitchen. Just in case you don't, I'll just say that I'm against it - usually. However, if you have to eat it, then I don't think it gets much better than the way it was served up at Bell's, with the soft, musky smokiness riding the sweetness of caramelised onion and buttery, crumbly pastry in great style.

Pammie, who had been ignorant of the joys of bresaola for all of her 70-odd years, was instantly converted to it. The inclusion of slices of ripe comice, chunks of walnut and the sharpness of the capers was a pretty intelligent move, too. I must confess to a slight sense of disappointment with my terrine, which could have done with a day or two longer in the larder to beef up the flavour.

Then I was cheated of my turkey dish because it appealed so strongly to the Chief Executive that she commandeered it, slipping me her hake. Not that I minded too much. I had had a mouthful or two of the turkey, and thought that the sweet bitterness of the black treacle notion worked exceptionally well, particularly along with the very clever, if rather bizarre sounding, ketchup. It was as interesting a way with the festive bird as I have come across in years, and just shows how an enquiring mind and a sound sense of taste can bring new life to even the most hackneyed and abused of ingredients.

The hake was a magnificent piece of fish, grilled with great precision, so that the skin was all crisp and themeat all pearly and juicy. It rested on a fat, green cushion of spinach, and there were cockles in great abundance. I love these plump, marinesweet molluscs - so superior to the Italian vongole, in my opinion - and they produced plenty of wellflavoured liquid to lubricate each mouthful. The gremolata left me in a quandary: the idea of pepping up the dish was a good one, but the garlic was rather too much in evidence, and the other essential ingredients, lemon peel and parsley, not enough.

So it came down to dried figs poached in red wine, honey and thyme with goat's cheese ice cream for them, and the Christmas pud soufflÀ and a glass of Old Brown sherry for me. And what a pleasure they all were. The two ladies purred happily over their figs, while I came to the conclusion that the soufflÀ was the perfect solution to the pudding nightmare. It gives you all the spice, fruit and sugar, and none of the heartburn of the pudding proper, and it sat aside the sherry with the warmth and comfort of old friends.

I paid £121.60 for all this. The wine was £45.60, the food £25 a head (Christmas pricing; usually it's £17.50 for three courses), or £75 in all, with £1 going to the Street Smart Charity. It was an altogether unusual experience for me to leave a restaurant with a moral sense of well-being matching the physical one.